Inquiries
by SleeplessShinyOne
Summary: "McGonagall was not a nostalgic person but found herself missing the days of whipped cream in pillowcases and sun-streaked and tan boys with a wide variety of hair colors yelling outside her window." McGonagall talks with Little James about his ancestors.


A/N: I'm supposed to be working on my GIANT-SCHOLARLY-SHOW-THAT-I-CAN-ACTUALLY-WORK-HARD-AND-NOT-PROCRASTINATE-HALF-HOUR-LONG PRESENTATION OF DEATH, DOOM, AND HECK-TYME(™), but I'm alone in my house with a computer.

More Lazy Shiny Oneshot Time!

Why, oh why, do I do this to myself? XD

Also, *guiltily mutters* Seven Deadly Sins- I have committed all of them by not updating it. I swear I will this week.

Enjoy and stuff, yeah, my first published-on-this-site HP fanfic. No warnings. This is K. Read it to your little sister, nyeh, whatever.

Love you guys. 3

Peace,

-The Truly Sleepless SleeplessShinyOne, drinking cold coffee and asking my beta advice for my presentation-

James Sirius Potter gazed up at his Transfiguration teacher, looking amazed.

_You really taught my grandpa?_ he said, his big brown eyes huge in awe. Man, this lady was _old!_ He couldn't wait to tell Kenny, Bruce, and the rest of his dorm-mates just how old she really was.

_Yes, Mr. Potter. Run along, please. I'm trying to grade papers._

_Is he the one whose name's on the Quidditch trophy that's next to my dad's?_

_Yes_, sighed Minerva McGonagall, resigning herself to the fact that this little boy was just as inquisitive as his predecessors.

_Can you tell me about him? Dad's already told me all the stories from when HE was little. What 'bout Grandpa?_

_I don't have time,_ the headmaster/professor murmered, focused on grading these abysmal Transfiguration essays, not glancing up. But she didn't hear the telltale noises of little James leaving her office.

Annoyed and irritated now, Minerva looked up, to shoo the little menace out of her space, when suddenly tears welled up in her eyes.

Alarmed, she removed her glasses to rub at her itchy eyelids, but she wasn't able to rid herself of the image-

Three boys, two of them grinning that carbon-copy mischief grin, stood in front of her desk.

_Awe, c'mon, McGonny_, one seemed to say, hazel eyes daring, and the other said _Tell him about us!_ with grey irises as earnest as they had ever been in life. _His father would be happy, _added the kind-looking one gently.

And, with a heart that was full of sorrow for her three lost students, all so young before their murders, McGonagall began to tell James Sirius Potter about his ancestors- most of them not even blood relatives, but contributing significantly to his history.

_Your grandfather was.. Quite like you, _she said haltingly, then added

_Well, he had a best friend. A few, actually._

_Ha! I've got a few too! _was James' last interruption before the woman began her story.

_It was a colder night than usual for September._

* * *

><p>McGonagall looked around the entrance hall, drawing her tartan coat tightly around her shoulders uncomfortably, shivering in this unusually chilly draft. She had explained the Sorting Hat to the students and now they were all in line, waiting their turn for destiny or personality or choice or whatever to determine their Houses.<p>

"Black, Sirius," she called, and a boy with a ridiculous amount of long black hair and clear grey eyes swaggered- yes, swaggered- up to the stool.

"Gryffindor," the hat proclaimed as soon as it touched his head.

"Black, Bellatrix," and "Black, Narcissa," the professor reminisced, were both Slytherins. The Blacks were an ancient pure-blood family, and they all had nasty tempers. But this boy was a Gryffindor...

Several more people went by.

"Lupin, Remus," caught her eye, with a mop of neat brown hair, ragged robes, and amber eyes. He walked as if with a limp. She made a mental note to put him on the book loan list for less fortunate students. The Sorting Hat opened its mouth- "Gryffindor," made her relax, he was in her House. She had already begun to feel protective.

"Potter, James," the boy who had gotten a detention on the train already, had a shock of unruly dark hair he ran his hands through constantly, and hazel eyes that were huge and arrogant. "Gryffindor," the hat said immediately, and James leapt off the stool and ran over to join Sirius at the table.

Over the next few days of school, the three boys' faces kept popping up in the oddest spots.

They already had a knack for getting in trouble, but Remus, bless him, tended to try and talk them out of it.

In class, they were all brilliant, Sirius leaping up to call out something that put the class in stitches and himself in detention, James tossing things around like one of those Muggle ball-base- was that what they were called?-players, and Remus with his soft, correct answers coming from that face wise beyond his years.

"BlackPotterLupin," in my office now," was common, although plenty of the time it was just "Black," just "Potter," or whenever bad things happened, "'GET IN MY OFFICE BLACK AND POTTER BEFORE YOU GET IN MORE TROUBLE THAN YOU ARE ALREADY IN!"

As they grew, so did the scope of their pranks, and by seventh year, they all left, taking the times with them. McGonagall, who was not a nostalgic person, found herself missing the days of whipped cream in pillowcases and sun-streaked and tan boys with a wide variety of hair colors yelling outside her window and those spectacular Quidditch games where James saved the day and his friends screamed his name through their thick layer of gold and red face paint, the times they'd talked their way out of detention, the pointing fingers of accusation at that boy they liked to harass.

Then they all fell victim to the Second Wizarding War, and she knew she would never, ever see those times again.

* * *

><p>James looked over, sadly. <em>I feel bad none of them lived<em>, he remarked, just as his friends came in, asking where he was and what he was doing talking with that old lady, his friends looking heartbreakingly like her old students, his friends, one with dark hair, the other with wise eyes.

McGonagall tried not to, but she knew at some point during this year she'd fall into calling them "Remus," "Sirius" and "James" so often they answered to it.


End file.
